Sunday, November 30, 2008

Congratulations to my ex Danko who as of last week became a proud father. Here's a five year old video of him teaching his 4 year old nephew how to read in Kosice, Slovakia. What a good father you'll make. Hubicky a na zdravi!

Saturday, November 29, 2008

I have my very own special tradition during long cold soggy days in New Orleans. I ignore all phone calls and the fact there's an exterior world and lock myself in my apartment where I eat the contents of my fridge, and pretend that I don't ever need to do the dishes. Then my dogs and I give each other doleful looks across the room while I sit and ponder what to do besides eat. Usually this entails looking at a clock and thinking that 4:30pm might be a bit too early to call it a night.

I spent today working through about 8 hours of obligatory films: The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Doctor Zhivago, The English Patient. I am really a shell of my former self. In the latter, when he comes back to get his lover's body from the cave all I can think about it how bad that must smell and he's lying right next to it. Gross. But then again, it was the desert, so maybe she was just drying out. Still, she looked a little too pliable when he was carrying here to the plane.

See, here's why I don't want to get involved romantically. In the end, someone has to deal with a body. Or worse, they get pregnant - but I guess that still counts.

Friday, November 28, 2008

I recently decided that I want a semi-auto. I'm leaning toward a Glock 19 or a Beretta Vertec. They seem nice and business-like and are made for small dainty hands like mine. I am pshawing all weapons that are pink.

I'm not sure of why I have this sudden obsession except the fact that I recently found out there's a great shooting place nearby, and I figure that might be a nice way to release some aggression so I can stop writing angry blog entries about unreasonable pet peeves. (Another one: people in front of you in line at your favorite gelato place who want a sample of every flavor.)

Also, a friend got car-jacked recently. I really doubt that if I got car-jacked I'd have the foresight or time to reach into the glove compartment and engage the car jacker in a duel. But I'd like to think that might be a possibility. New Orleans would probably give me a medal.

My father's gift on the day I moved back into my former apartment* was this frigging enormous shot gun which was about 3/4 of my height and had a recoil that could knock me over unless I braced myself against a wall. It also had a hammer that took my upper arm to draw back and the added bonus of once the hammer was drawn, you had to shoot it. Between that and the fact I was wary of keeping it loaded, the only way that thing was ever going to offer me any protection was if I hit someone with it. An unlikely scenario.

The shotgun started taking up too much space, and so I gave it back this summer. But I also went shooting with one of my dad's friends, and realized just how much I like semi-autos.

The problem is legitimately securing a weapon is really a pain in the ass. And ridiculously expensive. The models I'm considering run from $450-800. Then you have a $250 fee for a concealed license in Louisiana. Plus you have to sit through a NINE HOUR LONG SATURDAY CLASS. I'm starting to understand the illegal weapons trade now. So much easier to run around with a stolen registered gun then enter the twisted world of Louisiana bureaucracy. But, oh well - I like being legit with my deadly weapons.

I realized that I could at least save the notary fee on my application since I work with a thousand notaries, including myself (I still stroke that seal in disbelief). Then I realized that maybe I don't want to share the fact I will be carrying a concealed weapon with my colleagues lest they start equating me with Charlton Heston.** Actually, I work with a lot of men, so this might be a good thing. Maybe I should get my NRA magazines delivered to work.

A partner was telling me how gun sales have soared since everyone is terrified Obama's going to take their weapons away. Um, from my recollection, I don't think that was exactly his stance, but whatever. Anyway, he told me the prices are really good now.

I wonder if they have any Black Friday gun sales. Maybe I should start dropping a few hints to my loved ones.

*My former apartment was on a street in New Orleans with the highest homicide rate - it got so bad that real estate agents started adding a "South" to the name of my street in listings, even though the street ran east-west. Just had another murder there last week. A gun got gunned down while walking his dog two blocks from my old place. Nice.

I am not a shopper. That's actually not true, my fingers do a great deal of shopping on my dilapidated 6 year old laptop (yes, the screen fell off last week, but I just can't let it go yet). I really don't understand why people head to the stores when lovely and unique good are just lurking on the net waiting to be discovered.

Plus, I'm gifted with friends with impeccable taste. Who also have friends with impeccable taste. Which how I stumbled across these, which will be making the rounds as Christmas gifts this year.

In other news I got so drunk on red wine last night, I threw up in my friends toilet and then passed out on her couch. I then threw up again on a neighbor's lawn while walking the dogs this morning. I'm 30 years old. I think I'll be on the wagon for awhile.

My friend took the bottles I bought and put them aside for just us. Instead, we had the rather decent $6.99 Ravenswood Zinfandel. I'm glad it was decent because I will never drink Zinfandel again. It can now joined the ranks of its shunned sister Merlot.

I'm also in kind of a weird position this second. My neighbor's bedroom is on the other side of my living room wall. My neighbor recently put her headboard against the wall we share. So, if she decides to be affectionate with her boyfriend, it's pretty obvious.

It's weird because I'm definitely not pervy enough to listen, but if I turn on the TV or music, then it's obvious I was hearing it before. I wonder if I still have some earplugs around.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Like I didn't have enough critical shit going on in my life right now, I'm pretty sure the salesman at my local wine shop thinks I'm going cheap by putting a strict limit on my $20-30 price range for the two bottles I picked up for a friend's Thanksgiving feast tomorrow. I did want to pay more, I really did. But most of my student loans have kicked in which has made me reassess my expenses. Not to the point of packing my lunch everyday, but at least to the point of reconsidering whether I really need that weekly massage.

(Answer: yes. Therefore I will forego expensive gym membership. Besides, the firm is starting free lunchtime yoga lessons next week. This may be my only real chance to shine. Strike that, the other day I won a cooler during an associate training by knowing what a "bellwether" is. Once again, random knowledge...).

Anyway, back to the wine thing. So, I've started to make more of an effort to buy stuff from local specialty shops. Which is funny because Magazine Street pretty much has a specialty shop for everything from stained glass to butt hair. I probably don't need to point out that this decision wasn't probably the most fiscally conservative. So, really, my $20-30 price range was totally justified, considering I could've gone down the road to Whole Foods or Rouse's and paid 5 bucks less.

But actually, I would have loved to pick up 2 $60 bottles for my friend and me to enjoy amongst our loved acquaintances whilst gobbling what is sure to be an excellent example of her gourmet cooking. The petty problem is that I don't really like some of her friends that are coming to dinner. And call me a bitch, but the thought of people who do things like throw up on people or leave used condoms on their friend's couches guzzling down wine that I paid for with my hard-earned cash...well, I'll just be uncharitable. Much to the sales guy's disappointment.

Maybe we can put them at the children's table. Then break out the nice bottle.

In other news, I am still unable to gain weight and am now sure that I do indeed have a parasite. Oh well, let him hang in there through the holidays. One less thing to worry about.

Monday, November 24, 2008

I was lying in bed the other night trying to hypnotize myself into sleep with my ceiling fan, and found that one of my inner voices was actually congratulating me on the accomplishment of not getting married.

The congratulations were a bit overdone. I've done very little toward that accomplishment unless you count my unusual talents of demanding too much, alienation, and generally being illogical in les affaires d'amour. I don't even if they're talents so much as reflexes, but anyway...

I was thinking about something I read about how some women reaching my now ripe age of 30 without tying the knot will occasionally throw parties in which they "marry themselves."

I think that's really gay, both figuratively and literally. I don't plan on doing something that lame.

I would be a liar though if I said that I never went in for the whole big wedding shindig, with me on the cover of bride magazine, being showered with flowers and adoration from the hundreds upon hundreds of friends and family all piled into the castle to celebrate. Also, I would be on a white horse with birds carrying my train and the ringbearer would be a sultan on a floating cloud. And of course, my prince would be just that right degree of sexy, sexual and sensitive that doesn't lean toward repressed homosexuality. And as our lips met on the alter, it made an eternal seal that would bind us beyond even death itself.

Yeah, that was me.

The years passed. I see no point in spending more than $500 on a dress I will only wear once. I know that the girls on the cover of Bride magazine are airbrushed and covered with an inch of makeup. The number of my wedding guests has dwindled. I have developed stage fright. I have developed commitment issues. I don't like when people throw things at me, even if it qualifies as a gentle toss. I've been afraid of riding horses ever since one decided to throw me into a fence. I met a prince once who fit all of the qualifications, except that he was also a liar. And now I know when you die you just die. So sometimes you brush your teeth before getting back into bed in the morning just to try and make the perfection last. Not that it really existed anyway.

If I were to get married today, here's how it would go. I would take my man to a judge acquaintance's house in the middle of the night under cover of darkness. I would wear a simple white dress under a long black coat. I would have my sister give me away and take photos. I would never change my name. I would be the same, except I'd smile once in awhile. I would never base my facebook status around what my husband is or is not doing. I would be me. He would be him. And if we can't be happy, we'll let go.

About a year and a half ago, and over a bottle of wine enjoying the peace of finally making friends with my crazy neighbor, I impulsively hired her to do a painting. She delivered it this evening. It's about eight feet long and 30 pounds with the frame.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

I got dumped. I guess this is something a normal girl would get kind of upset about, particularly if it came about in the retarded fashion that it did. But I'm really not. My one regret is that I never got to drop the bomb about not knowing what I whispered to the guy in my post-bar success drunken state.* Now it would just be vindictive, and this bitch is not that unclassy. Well, it did make my facebook status, but that's just the norm these days.

Anyway, here's how it happened. One morning, while I was desperately trying to keep his 150 pound Irish wolfhound from deflowering me with his snout or his cats from clawing my eyes out, he suggested that we get some ice cream. We talked about ice cream a lot, since we didn't really have the same taste in literature.**

Anyway, as he lives in the Quarter, I suggested he come uptown to Sucre(this has the accent, but I don't know how to do that), which probably has the best gelato going. At that point he told me he didn't like that idea because Sucre is not a word.

"Yes, it is," I said. "It's a French word. It means sweet."

"My sister says it's not a word."

"Maybe your sister doesn't know French."

"She has a PhD in French."

"Well, maybe she got it online."

I could tell he was somewhat irritated by my levity in questioning the knowledge of the eldest of his hallowed siblings, but it blew over.

So, a few days later, he dropped me an email asking me for ice cream. Which ensued this nasty little exchange:

Me: They have banana and nutella ice cream at Sucre. If that's a word.

Him: The mistake was that my brother thought it was an accent greve. He asked my sister. She said, "no such word."

Me: Your brother is an idiot. At least now I know your sister is not. Also, it's an accent grave, not greve.

Him: No. He is very smart. He just misread the sign in passing.

Me: If I read a sign that look wrong, I'd double check before impugning a local business.

Him: If I knew someone whose best friends are his siblings, I'd think twice before impugning their character.

At that point I apologized for being so combative, then he lectured me on my manners. At which point I retracted my apology and told him he was being a little oversensitive. He then told me he didn't think we should see each other anymore, and I said "fine."

Lame. Hilarious, but lame.

Oh well, at least I don't feel bad about my little Maine fling now. Oh, who am I kidding? I never felt bad about that anyway.

*I am starting to think that I asked him to read me some poetry.

**I am also remembering that when he did read me some poetry, I told him it sucked.

Sometimes things are just not meant to be.

At Sucre, they also have coconut basil sorbet, and it knocks your socks off.

Friday, November 7, 2008

I've realized recently the source of all my troubles with the bar passee (besides the fact that he was a Classics major, which makes him simultaneously witty and pedantic). It's that we are both looking at this situation very differently. He is looking at it as the beginning of something beautiful, while I regard it as a chance to perfect my witty-flirting-by-text skills. For the next victim.

An example of this cross-purpose is the fact that it recently became apparent that he is placing a whole lot of emphasis on whatever it was I whispered in his ear the night we met. As stated before, I thought it was along the line of satisfying munchies with unhealthy food in the Quarter, but come to think of it, I would probably never be so uncouth. And besides, he wouldn't remember it if it were something so practical.

I'm sure it was something poetic. In fact, I know it was something poetic. And meaningful. I mean, not really meaningful since I really didn't mean it, but with a meaningful air all the same. I'm sure I took a couple of minutes to figure out just the right phrasing and intonation and exactly how closely I would lean into his ear for the desired effect. I know this because, sadly, I'm really good at that. 'Cause I'm a playa, yo.

Unfortunately, I don't know what it is that I said.

This has become a problem of mammoth proportions. We are both litigators, and extremely talented in calling people's bullshit. I should just give it up instead of involving myself in potentially disastruous conversations like the following:

Him: I was just thinking about what you whispered in my ear that night.

Me. Oh. Yeah.

Him: I thought that was really amazing. Where did you come up with that?

Me: Well, I mean, I thought about it you know. Before I whispered it your ear, I thought, you know, that'd be a good thing to say to that guy. And then I said it.

Him: Well, it was precisely what I've always wanted to hear whispered in my ear.

Me: Oh well, I knew that. That's why I whispered that phrase.

Him: You know what part of it I liked best?

Me: (perking up) Yes??

Him: The fact you used alliteration.

Me: Oh. Were there like any other parts? Like particular words or something?

Him: Oh, I like all the words. You should know. You remember what you said, right?

Me: Of course I remember.

I'm so fucked. Or maybe not. This could be a highly efficient way of ending this if things get too serious.

About Me

Crunching conundrums, blasting boredom, eliciting criticism, languishing while laughing, blaming poetry (and/or the lack of) for all of my choices, leaving it to the stars or the people better equipped to handle it, cackling at catastrophe and saying sayanora to sourpusses and sore losers